by Matt Dunn
Sam gives me a squeeze, and puts on an American accent. ‘Well, I want you to focus on that anger, that strength of feeling, get back on that stepper, and you work it, buddy. Or something like that.’
That gets a smile out of me. ‘You betcha!’
I leap back on the machine and start pumping away, much harder than before.
‘Steady on,’ says Sam. ‘You don’t want to pull something.’
But, ironically, that’s exactly what I do want to do.
7.43 p.m.
When I walk into the Admiral Jim, Dan’s sat opposite Wendy at the bar, staring intently at his mobile phone.
‘They do have ring tones, apparently,’ she says to him. ‘You know—to let you know when someone’s calling?’
‘Huh?’
‘Just so you don’t have to stare at it the whole time.’
Dan shushes her. ‘I’m waiting for an important call.’
‘Results from the paternity clinic?’ I suggest.
‘Shut your face. It’s to see if I’m in panto next year.’
Wendy winks at me. ‘Panto? You? Don’t you have to be famous to be in panto?’
Dan takes the bait. ‘I am famous. Well, famous enough for panto, at least.’
Wendy counts me in. ‘Oh no you’re not,’ we chorus.
‘How would you two losers know?’
I shake my head. ‘Very disappointing, mate. You won’t get very far if you don’t know the basics.’
Dan looks annoyed. ‘What basics?’
‘You know. “Look behind you”.’
Dan swivels to look over his shoulder. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘There’s a tiny house…’ sings Wendy. Dan just looks at her strangely.
‘Why do you suppose he wants to be in panto anyway?’ she says to me. ‘Aren’t you supposed to wait until your career is on the slide?’
‘Yes, well, Dan fancies himself as a bit of an actor.’
‘Dan just fancies himself, full stop.’
‘No, seriously. Ever since he got a bit part as “Corpse Number Two” in Casualty.’
‘That’s not acting. All he had to do was lie there and pretend to be dead,’ says Wendy, pouring me a drink before heading off to serve some customers.
‘Which pretty much describes his sexual technique,’ I call after her. ‘Apparently.’
I pick what’s evidently the latest in the long line of Dan’s mobile phones up off the bar and examine it. It looks like something out of Star Trek.
‘I still can’t believe you don’t own a mobile,’ says Dan, taking it back from me, as if he’s afraid I might break it.
‘What’s the point? I’m either at home, where I’ve got a phone, or in the office, where I’ve got a phone, or at the pub, where I don’t want to be disturbed.’
Dan looks at me in disbelief. ‘Edward. Everyone has a mobile nowadays. And not having one…it’s like…well, some kind of social stigma. Like not being able to drive, or having an ugly girlfriend. Which, coincidentally…’
‘But why would I need one?’ I say, cutting him off.
‘Because the whole dating scene revolves around mobiles nowadays. You meet a girl, you get talking, what’s the first thing you do?’
‘Er…I know this one. Ask her what her favourite film is?’
‘No, dummy. You get her phone number.’
‘That would have been my second answer. Phone number. Right.’
‘And how do you remember it?’
‘Write it down?’
‘Sure. Because you’ve come out to the bar equipped with a pencil and paper.’
‘Well, I go and borrow them from the barman.’
‘Great idea. Only to find when you get back, she’s gone, or is being chatted up by someone else. You snooze, you lose, remember.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘You punch her number into your mobile phone.’
‘But I haven’t got one.’
‘Exactly. Which is why, if you’re going to follow this thing through properly, you need to get one.’ Dan flips his open and presses a few of the keys, causing the display to light up. ‘And you need to get the smallest, latest, most expensive and flashiest model you can afford.’
‘Why? It’s just a phone.’
‘Yeah. And that’s what she’ll be thinking, especially when she sees that the huge bulge in your trousers is actually caused by nothing more than your prehistoric brick of a mobile. Your phone should be what you aspire to be yourself—slim and sophisticated.’
‘Very funny.’
‘And then the next day, seeing as you’ve got her phone number now, what do you do?’
‘Call her?’
‘Nope. Not first time round.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because what you don’t want is a reaction. You phone her, she either doesn’t remember who you are, or she reacts with such indifference that you’ll never want to see her again.’
‘So?’
‘So instead you send her a text. Which you can’t do if you don’t have?’
‘A mobile phone.’
Dan breathes a sigh of relief. ‘By Jove, I think he’s got it.’
8.03 p.m.
I’m savouring only my second nicotine fix of the day, as Dan regards me from across the table. Suddenly, he reaches over and pinches my cheek.
‘Ow. Get off. What are you doing?’
Dan lets me go. ‘I was just thinking…’
‘What?’
‘Have you thought about plastic surgery?’
I nearly drop my cigarette in surprise. ‘I don’t need plastic surgery.’
‘Yes you do. Look at your eyes. You’ve got bigger bags than Louis Vuitton.’
‘That’s just because I’m tired. From all these early starts.’
‘But what about those wrinkles?’
‘What wrinkles? I don’t have any wrinkles.’
‘Well, maybe not now,’ concedes Dan. ‘But that’s because you’ve got a fat face. Fat people always look younger than thin people, because the fat fills out the wrinkles. But when they lose that weight…’
‘What are you going on about now’?’
‘It’s true. Just look at that Nigel Lawson. As a fat chancellor he looked in pretty good nick. Then he lost all that weight, and suddenly he looks like he’s ready for his pension. Or what’s left of it, after what his lot did to the economy.’
‘I’m not having plastic surgery. Just drop it.’
‘Fine.’
‘Thank you.’
Dan continues to stare at me. ‘Or…’
‘What?’
‘Have you thought about Botox?’
‘Botox?’
‘Yeah. Basically, they inject you with this stuff that removes all your wrinkles. Makes you look ten years younger almost overnight.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘I dunno. Its some kind of poison, I think. Paralyses the muscles that cause wrinkles. Voila! Face as tight as a baby’s arse.’
‘Poison? What sort of poison?’
‘That food poisoning one. Bot-something.’
‘Botulism?’
Dan nods. ‘Yeah. That’s the fella.’
I stare at Dan’s remarkably line-free face. ‘How come you know so much about it?’
He shrugs. ‘Got to think about the future. Protect the assets.’
‘So let me get this straight. You want me to get food poisoning injected into my face on purpose, just so I can look a few years younger?’
‘If you like.’
‘And this’ll be really cheap, I suppose?’
‘About two hundred and fifty quid a pop,’ he says. ‘I imagine.’
‘I can’t just come round to your flat for dinner, get food poisoning, and achieve the same effect?’
‘Cheeky bugger. But you’ll think about it?’
‘Dan, number one, I hate injections. Number two, I don’t want poison injected into my face, or anywhere, now I come to
think of it. And number three, I don’t want to walk around looking like I’ve got a bloody mask on for the rest of the year. So no, I won’t think about it.’
Dan sits back in his chair and holds his hands up. ‘Fair enough. Only trying to help. But…’
‘But what?’
‘In that case, you really ought to give up the smoking. Completely. Very bad for the skin. Not to mention the teeth. Or the wallet.’
I stare fondly at the Marlboro in my hand. ‘I’m trying. But on top of everything else I’ve had to give up—the beer, the chocolate, the pizza—it’s hard.’
‘Rubbish,’ says Dan. ‘Giving up smoking? Piece of piss.’
‘How would you know? You’ve never given up anything in your life.’
‘I’m serious. It’s easy.’
‘Yeah, right. How does the joke go? “So easy I’ve done it hundreds of times”.’
‘Listen. Do any of your friends smoke?’
‘Er…nope.’
‘Does anyone at work smoke?’
‘Seeing as there’s only Natasha and me in the office, and she doesn’t, then no.’
‘So is there anyone you know, anyone at all, who you could possibly bum a cigarette off if you get desperate?’
I think about this for a moment. There’s only Billy, who I know smokes roll-ups, but that would be just too low.
‘No.’
‘Well, do you want to know the easiest way to give up?’
‘Go on…’
Dan reaches across, takes my last Marlboro from me, and grinds it out distastefully in the ashtray. ‘Stop buying cigarettes.’
Monday 14th February
7.27 p.m.
It’s Valentine’s night, and I’m waiting for Dan in the Admiral Jim. That’s not as sad as it sounds for either of us; my ‘girlfriend’ if you can still call her that, is several thousand miles away, and Dan never ever has a date on Valentine’s evening, thinking it too much of a commitment thing.
I haven’t received a card from Jane this morning, but I’ve just put that down to the fact that she probably wasn’t able to find a post box, or even a card shop, come to think of it. Besides, I haven’t sent her one either, although that’s mainly because I don’t know where exactly she is.
Dan’s almost half an hour late, and I’m just about to call him on my new mobile, courtesy of ‘Fone Home’ (which I can’t say unless it’s in E.T.’s voice) in the high street, when he appears, grinning sheepishly. ‘Sorry, mate. Had a job getting out of my front door.’
I don’t take the bait. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know. With all the Valentine’s cards blocking it.’
I sigh. ‘Have you purposefully been hanging around outside for half an hour in the cold just so you can make that pathetic joke?’
Dan’s face falls. ‘Well, not quite half an hour.’
The Jim is having some kind of Valentine’s theme night, with heart-shaped balloons flying above the tables, and the bar staff all dressed in pink. Not surprisingly it’s pretty quiet, although I’m sure the same can’t be said for thousands of tables-for-two at Brighton’s various restaurants this evening.
As Dan pulls up a stool, Wendy appears behind the bar. She’s wearing a pair of red heart-shaped, battery-operated, deeley-boppers, which flash on and off alternately. They’re somewhat out of tune with her miserable expression.
‘Evening you two lovebirds,’ she says. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘My usual,’ says Dan, ‘and another half for Edward.’
‘What do you mean “another half”? I haven’t had a beer.’
‘Sorry mate. I meant to say “an other half”.’
‘Very funny.’
Wendy shakes her head. ‘So what have you two got planned tonight? Something romantic?’
Dan stick his tongue out at her. ‘It’s my only night off in the year. I want to do something fun. Any suggestions, Eddy boy?’
‘Dan, it’s bloody Valentine’s night. We can either go and sit in a restaurant surrounded by loved-up couples trying to inject some romance into their meaningless relationships, go home and watch the umpteenth rerun of When Harry Met Sally or some other romantic rubbish, or sit here. Which would you prefer?’
‘Good point.’ Dan turns his attention back to Wendy, who’s flashing away opposite us. ‘So, no date tonight?’
‘Only with a large glass of wine when I get home.’
‘What’s your boyfriend doing this evening?’ asks Dan.
Wendy reddens slightly. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Why not?’ I’ve asked this in the spirit of sympathy, and then suddenly realize that it’s not the cleverest of questions. Particularly on Valentine s Day.
Wendy pulls up a stool. ‘Well, number one, I work in a pub, so even though I meet a lot of men, they’re usually drunk when they ask me out. Number two, because I work in a pub I’m busy most evenings and weekends, so don’t have a lot of social life anyway, and number three, on the odd occasion I do go out with anyone I meet here, they’re only after one thing. Besides,’ she says, nodding at Dan, ‘most of the single guys who come in here turn out to be losers anyway.’
‘No offence taken,’ says Dan.
‘That’s a shame,’ replies Wendy.
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Hence the reason you’re working this evening.’
‘Exactly. I selflessly volunteered, so the other barmaids could spend the night with their nearest and dearest.’
‘Nothing to do with the fact that they’re paying you triple time, then?’ suggests Dan.
‘Maybe,’ says Wendy. ‘But at least I’ve got the pleasure of your company on this, the most loved-up of evenings,’ she adds, dryly.
‘Jane adored Valentine’s Day,’ I sigh. ‘I used to cook her dinner, do flowers, chocolates, the works.’
‘Romance the pants off her, you mean,’ says Dan. ‘It’s just one big marketing con to sell truckloads of naff cards and vastly overpriced chocolates, all so suckers like Edward here can get his yearly shag. I’m surprised you women don’t just ask for the money instead.’
‘So why didn’t you keep it up for the rest of the year?’ asks Wendy.
‘Hur hur,’ laughs Dan.
She ignores him. ‘The romance, and stuff, I mean.’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t know I had to. I thought it was a bit like hunting, you know, once I’d snared her…Well, all the hard work had been done, apart from birthdays and Valentine’s…’
Wendy shakes her head. ‘Edward, a relationship needs constant attention. It’s a living thing, not just a habit. You’ve got to keep on top of it.’
‘Hur hur,’ laughs Dan again, until I dig him in the ribs.
‘It’s like owning a car,’ continues Wendy. ‘You can’t expect it to keep going on its own. It’s bound to need a few minor repairs down the years.’
‘And, of course, regular servicing,’ chimes in Dan, smuttily.
‘And not just once a year,’ says Wendy.
I look across at Dan, daring him to make a comment.
‘What?’ he says.
I’m starting to feel a bit guilty now, and try to explain myself. ‘Valentine’s Day was different. Kind of a tradition. Besides, we didn’t go in for any of that romance stuff in the early days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we were students. Back then, romance was remembering someone’s name in bed the next morning.’
‘Sounds like my life today,’ muses Dan.
Wendy rolls her eyes. ‘Well, when was the last time you bought Jane flowers, for example? And please don’t say “February the fourteenth last year”.’
I have to think about this one. ‘Er…I can’t remember. Oh, hold on, yes I can. We were driving back from London one afternoon last summer and we’d stopped to fill up with petrol. The garage was selling off bouquets of roses that had reached their sell-by date, so I surprised her with some.’
Wendy shakes her head, sending her deeley-boppers into spas
m. ‘I’ll bet you did. And you haven’t “surprised” her with any since?’
‘Nope. “Don’t waste your money on things like this,” she’d said.’
‘So you just didn’t buy her any. Ever again?’
I give Wendy a puzzled look. ‘Well, she’d told me not to.’
Wendy sighs. ‘You really haven’t been listening to her, have you? When she said not to waste your money on things like that, you assumed she meant flowers in general, right?’
I nod, unaware of any other possible interpretation.
‘Right.’
‘Get real, Edward. She meant those particular flowers. Petrol-station flowers. And certainly not “special offer” petrol-station flowers. No girl in her right mind wants her boyfriend to stop buying her flowers. Ever.’
I’m still a little confused. ‘I don’t get it.’
Wendy folds her arms. ‘Let me tell you how romance works. Both of you. All a woman actually wants is to feel special. It really is as simple as that. And special-offer petrol-station flowers certainly don’t make us feel special. When we stop feeling that way, well…’
Wendy reaches up and presses a button on the side of her headband, causing the lights to go out in the two red flashing hearts.
I get it.
Wednesday 16th February
7.44 a.m.
This morning is a turning point for me in my training programme. Not only am I not sick, but I don’t even feel sick. I manage the stairs three times without stopping, and even though (of course) I’m knackered by the time I’ve finished, I actually believe that, given the right amount of rest— perhaps a day or two, I tell Sam jokingly—I could even do it once more. Sam’s pleased with my progress, and to celebrate she puts me through the kind of stretching routine that would have had the Spanish inquisitors wincing and saying things like ‘steady on’—in Spanish, of course.
We head back and Sam puts me through another kind of torture, this time a Swedish interval training technique called ‘Fartlek’—a word I’d find funny if the training weren’t so exhausting—where I have to sprint then jog alternately between the lampposts that all too frequently for my liking line the promenade. By the end, Sam’s hard pressed to tell the difference between my sprinting and my jogging, and ‘Fartlek’ has joined ‘ikea’ on my list of Swedish things I hate, but all in all I’m quite chuffed with myself. Sam is pleased with me too, although the glint in her eye seems to promise more severe exertions in the days to come.
